


Open Wound

by shell_and_bone



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Angst, Assault, Character Study, Gen, Headcanon, Panic Attacks, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Religious Discussion, Season/Series 03, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell_and_bone/pseuds/shell_and_bone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two weeks after the events of <i>Dust to Dust</i>, Londo struggles to acknowledge the trauma of his assault. In doing so, he revisits parts of himself he thought were long buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Wound

**Author's Note:**

> In case the summary and tags did not tip you off, this fic delves into some unpleasant territory. In the interest of fairness and sensitivity, I hope to have painted both parties in equal shades of gray, both victims and perpetrators of two very different kinds of violence. That said, the focus here is on Londo. As such, the fic is structured from his POV and all that includes during his darker moments in Season 3. Please keep this in mind as you read.
> 
> (Big thanks to Amatara for helping me edit this fic! <3)

They said he spoke to God now. Londo had not asked, but that, among other wild tales from the station’s brig, traveled fast among the security personnel. They congregated in the bars during their off-duty hours, sharing stories, complaints, personal frustrations, paying no mind to who may be listening in. Londo would nurse his drink and idly flirt with the bartender, but by some inducement he could attribute only to morbid curiosity, he would drift back into their gossip sessions at every mention of his name. 

_Me? I feel for the guy. That situation was a powder-keg waiting to go off. I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner._

_Which part? Beating the crap out of Ambassador Mollari, or completely losing his marbles?_

_Well, he’s never exactly been playing with a full deck if you ask me._

_Wasn’t he on Dust or something? I heard there was Dust involved, and you know how bad Dusties can get..._

There was a certain satisfaction in hearing others speak truths about G’Kar that Londo himself had known all along. Grief, despair, a well-deserved claim to retribution — those were the familiar explanations, yes, but if anyone bothered to ask, Londo would say that he’d always seen a flicker of madness in G’Kar’s eyes, that tendency to violent zealotry so common to Narns that it might well have been written into their genetic code. It was an impressive feat for G’Kar to have hidden it for so long and so well that, at times, even Londo had been foolish enough to forget. Nobody bothered to ask him. 

_Did you know that he didn’t even get arrested? I heard that he turned himself in._

_Yeah, yeah, I was talking with Dr. Hobbs and she said that he showed up in Medlab, carrying the ambassador in his arms, then reported straight to security headquarters and demanded Mike cuff him right then and there._

_Heh, did he?_

Sooner or later, the laughter would stop. The topic would shift. Londo would avert his gaze surreptitiously, or lean over the bar to tap Kat on the shoulder for a refill. He would leave when the whispers started, glass abandoned half-empty at the bar. Wild tales, indeed. Perhaps madness was contagious? 

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

Three fractured ribs, a mild concussion, a split lip, and a mottled assortment of bruises and abrasions extending from his collarbone all the way to his knees. Londo certainly hadn’t gotten off lightly, but the physicians in Medlab were of the opinion that it was a marvel he was still alive, much less steady on his feet a short few days after the altercation. That was what they were calling it. 

_If G’Kar hadn’t stopped when he did, well..._

_You’re lucky you didn’t end up with a punctured lung._

_It’s the psychic damage we should really be concerned about, ambassador—_

Londo had never liked doctors, especially human doctors, who could do little more than approximate his physiology, consulting textbooks and diagrams, often calling in their assistants for an ‘educational opportunity’ when examining something of interest. Noble intentions, regrettably, were their sole redeeming quality -- that, and a generous prescription of painkillers that went down pleasantly with brivari. 

Dr. Franklin had requested that Londo check in with him every week until his recovery was complete. Londo had protested, of course, that such attention was hardly necessary, but the doctor could be a persuasive man, even extending the offer of a personal ‘house-call’ if Londo were to miss an appointment. With great reluctance, he’d resolved to show up on time. 

He sat in a crowded waiting room adjacent to the Medlab facilities, flipping through a stack of outdated magazines. Crumpled into an uncomfortable chair, the position was agony on his healing ribs. If it weren’t for the flow of patients and staff passing in and out of the office, he would have gotten up to pace. A colourful array of alien faces greeted him every time he looked up — the groaning pak’ma’ra to his left, the human male across from him with an old-fashioned cast wrapped to the knee and a pair of crutches propped at his side. A Drazi couple sat in the far corner near a modest play-area, speaking in hushed tones while their two offspring shrieked happily over some kind of block-puzzle. Londo’s gaze lingered on them longer than he meant to. He opened up another magazine. 

‘Centauri Emperor to Visit Babylon 5’ 

The bold headline took up most of the page. Staring back at him was a picture of the late Emperor Turhan in full regalia, looking far younger than Londo remembered him at that time. He turned over the magazine to check the date. As he suspected, it was first issued a little under a year ago. Had it been that long? Something dropped in his stomach as his memory of that day flashed before his eyes — except they weren’t only _his_ memories now, were they? He closed the magazine and returned it to the sidetable, unable to read any more. A dull ache was building at his temples, his vision blurring until the words jumbled together on the page. 

_To the health of your emperor._

When he lifted his eyes to the rest of the room, he was struck with the most uncanny sensation. He was being watched. Everyone in the room was looking at him. Not with their eyes — the man across from him was glancing down at his cast, the Drazi couple still fondly watching their children — but he could feel himself shrink under the heat of scrutiny. Londo blinked in an attempt to dispel the illusion. It didn’t work. The collective gaze fixed, not on him precisely, but _through_ him, as if focused on something lurking just over his shoulder that he need only turn around to confront. 

A shudder tore through him. He turned from side to side, but there was neither danger nor refuge to be found. His chair felt tight, the room a suffocation chamber. The shallow breaths he sucked down made no difference — air thinned to vacuum by the time it hit his lungs. With an effort, he brought a hand to his throat to loosen his scarf. The skin underneath felt fevered, hot to the touch. His hearts were beating rapidly, he realized, hard against his chest and loud enough that he feared the entire room could hear. 

As his throat closed off, he felt his mind split open. Bound under the weight of the gaze, he had no means of resistance as his innermost thoughts echoed back to him from elsewhere — beheld, mangled, consumed. Exposed and vulnerable, he tried to think of something, anything. He tried to think of nothing at all. But the harder he tried, and the longer he concentrated, the more of him spilled out. 

_How does it feel to be helpless?_

“—lari? Ambassador Mollari?” 

A voice — a real one — cut through the cacophony. Reality resumed in the form of a human woman in scrubs beckoning him from the office doorway. “Dr. Franklin is ready to see you now.” Londo found he could move again, barely. His limbs came back to life foreign and unwieldy, but his urgent need to flee this room and this... _experience_ , whatever it was, compelled him to stand up and follow. 

The nurse escorted him to a private examination room at the end of a hallway. Dr. Franklin stood over the counter, skimming a clipboard of medical charts. Londo leaned against the door frame. “And here I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about me,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I recall you were the one who set the appointment for oh-fifteen hundred, doctor. Need I remind you that I am a busy man these days?”

“Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been a rough week, and we just had a flood of emergency cases from Downbelow. We’ve all been a little behind schedule,” Franklin said, his attention flitting from Londo to the chart in his hand. He paused to scribble down a few last notes, then he set the chart on the counter. “Thank you for your patience, ambassador. How have you been healing up in the meantime? Any new problems since the last time we spoke? How’s the pain?”

Londo forced a smile. “I have three broken ribs, doctor. You know what they say: it only hurts when I breathe.” The joke rang familiar. He might have heard it from Franklin himself in fact, but the doctor’s polite chuckle helped dispel the awkwardness.

“That’s to be expected, but I’d like to take a look anyway, make sure of a few things. First, we should try to...” Franklin raised an eyebrow. “By all means, make yourself at home, ambassador.”

Londo realized he was still lingering at the entrance, one foot out the door, when he was supposed to have already taken a seat on the examination table. “Yes, yes, naturally...” he said, crossing the threshold into the cramped office that felt smaller with each passing moment. Something inside him clenched when the door hissed shut. 

He turned around to remove his jacket and waistcoat, so Franklin wouldn’t see how his hands trembled undoing the buttons. With a slightly exaggerated wince, he pushed himself up onto the examination table. “There. Let us make this quick, shall we? Perhaps with a little less prodding than last time, hm?” Londo eased onto his less damaged side and lifted his shirt for Franklin’s inspection. He’d never seen the point of modesty in situations like this — the sooner the doctor got what he wanted, the sooner he could leave. 

Franklin’s gloved hands were cold on his skin. Londo gritted his teeth as the doctor mapped the fractures and gauged the progress of healing. The surrounding area was one solid bruise, blue-black fading to a sickly yellow at the edges. 

Londo jerked back when the doctor put pressure on a sensitive area. “Are you trying to break the rest of them now?”

“Sorry, I should have given you some warning. But I do need to check your pulse...” Franklin pressed two fingers over the same place, gentler this time. “Londo, are you sure you’re feeling all right?” he asked, leaning over to make eye contact. One hand groped for his stethoscope, causing Londo to recoil entirely. 

“I am perfectly fine, doctor!” he snarled, then immediately wished he hadn’t. The dizziness was back again, and the show of concern on Dr. Franklin’s face was almost more than he could bear. Was it that obvious? The sweat on his brow, the colour seeping out of his cheeks? “It is no matter, truly. Only a little light-headed. Nothing to worry about. I used to be a pilot, did you know? Leader of the finest fighter squadron in the Centauri military. We are used to the blood rushing from our heads to our feet in a quarter of a second.” Londo was prattling now, grasping at anything that would put the doctor’s mind at ease and keep the walls from crushing him. 

Franklin shook his head. “Well, that may be, but—“ He paused, a strange expression crossing his face. “Wait, you mean one of those Sentri fighters? I had no idea. Those things are supposed to be faster and more maneuverable than a Starfury, I hear.”

Londo silently thanked the gods for this brief respite. “Much faster, yes, and the thrusters are precisely calibrated so as to turn on a whim at the highest velocities. Even with the inertial dampeners, we are trained to allow ourselves to fall unconscious and let the autopilot take over when executing risky maneuvers.”

“Huh. I couldn’t recommend that from a medical perspective, but I can certainly see the combat value,” Franklin replied with a grin. He turned to fetch something from the counter. “I remember the Centauri never took part in the Dilgar War or the Earth-Minbari War. Did you ever see any action?”

“Oh, here and there,” Londo admitted, thinking back to his mandated years of service. “Civil conflicts for the most part. Territorial disputes, feuds between Houses, libertines on distant colonies refusing to pay their taxes — that sort of thing.” He gave a weak laugh. “You know, much of the time, all it took to settle the matter was for us to show up. The guilty party would back down immediately once they knew who they were up against.”

Franklin returned with a tray of instruments. “Oh yeah? Tell me about that...” He looped his fingers through a pair of metal scissors. “You can sit up now, ambassador. But I am going to need you to undo your top few buttons.” 

Thoughtlessly, Londo obliged, unbuttoning his shirt just enough to reveal a tightly stitched gash right below his collarbone where G’Kar had— 

“Go on. Keep talking. I’m interested.”

Londo let out a deep breath. “There were always a few stubborn rebellions, however, that required more than a show of force. One in particular put up quite a fight: Frallis 12, a small mining colony on the outskirts of Centauri space. For generations, the extraction operations on Frallis 12 had been in the hands of House Corello — a prosperous enterprise to be sure. One of the grand-sons of Lord Aldo Corello had been promised since childhood to a spirited young woman from House Alghul. However, some misfortune had fallen upon House Alghul by the time they were old enough to be wed, and Corello decided to break off the engagement, mere weeks before the wedding! But because of Alghul’s close ties to the throne, he managed to convince the young Emperor Turhan that such slights could not be tolerated, and to grant control of House Corello’s mining colony to Alghul—”

“Now this might feel a little cold, but let me know if anything hurts,” Franklin said. 

“Anyway, over the years, Lord Corello had accumulated a great many powerful friends. The standard network of House alliances, yes, but he also maintained independent trade-relationships with a number of alien worlds without approval from the Centaurum or the Ministry.” 

Franklin raised his eyebrows. “I take it that was a problem?” he asked, focused on clipping the sutures. 

“It was for us when the military was called to intervene,” Londo answered emphatically, gripping the table to keep from gesturing with his arms. “Two Vorchan-class warships, four fighter-squadrons. We hardly expected to find ourselves outnumbered by a veritable army. We had no choice but to fight our way through their blockade, Lord Corello adamant that if the Centauri government wished to retake Frallis 12, we would have to pry it from his cold, dead— ah!” Londo gave a jolt. “Yes, just rip them out, why don’t you?”

“Ah, I guess it’s still a little irritated.” Franklin dabbed the area with a soft-tipped instrument, tweezers frozen around a stray suture. “But these do need to come out. Just relax, we’re almost done,” he said, gently teasing out the last few loose stitches. “Did you manage it?” he asked after a beat. “Retaking the colony, I mean.”

In spite of the situation and all that had led up to it, Londo felt a smile tug at his cheeks. “We did at that, and in no small part thanks to my squadron. It was a magnificent fight — arduous, yes, one of our warships lost half of its fighter contingent to an enemy cruiser. The tide of battle was turned, however, when I noticed a gap in the blockade, allowing us to launch an assault on the colony itself. Not an easy task, I might add. House Corello had Frallis 12 equipped with a formidable defence system, but we managed to evade heavy rounds of anti-air fire, weaving in and out too fast for the missiles to even hold a target.” He let out a wistful sigh. “A most glorious day, doctor.” 

“No kidding,” Franklin said. “Wish I could have been there to see it.” He stopped at the counter again to sterilize his instruments, picking up his clipboard on the way back. “Oh, we’re finished, by the way. You’re free to go.”

“Finished? Already?” Londo blinked in confusion at the wound on his chest, unstitched and thoroughly cleaned. From that angle it appeared little more than a scratch. “Good. I should be going anyway, I am already late for another appointment,” he lied. Carefully, he slid off the table, prepared for the rush of dizziness and shortness of breath he expected to return any second. To his surprise, it never came. After gathering his waistcoat and jacket, Londo turned to leave. “Same time next week, doctor?”

“Same time next week,” Franklin confirmed, in the midst of jotting down more notes. Then, when Londo was halfway out the door, “Wait. Can I ask you something?” 

Londo turned around expectantly. 

A hesitance came into Franklin’s voice. “It sounds like the military life really suited you, ambassador.” The doctor searched Londo’s face, and for the first time since the war began, he could sense no judgment in the gesture. “Why did you stop?”

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_Why did he stop?_

That was the question everyone asked. Why G’Kar had stopped short of shattering every bone in his body and tearing his mind to pieces was a subject of inordinate speculation. Preserving his reputation, perhaps? Fear that if he’d carried out the act to completion, he would have lost his claim to sanctuary aboard the station? Reasonable explanations, all of them, but far too charitable to apply to G’Kar. An irrational act demanded an equally irrational end, did it not? The only incontrovertible point upon which everyone could agree was that whatever the reason, it had not been out of any special concern for Londo Mollari. 

After a certain point, the mystery ceased to interest him. It was enough that he and Vir had come out of the encounter alive. It was enough that he could now find some vile humour in the fact that G’Kar had gone entirely mad from the experience. Prayers, chants, songs droning through the cells in those eerie, hollow tones, all throat and no melody. Londo would have laughed for days at the absurdity of these stories if he could convince himself that they _were_ only stories, and if laughter did not send shooting pain up his sides. 

G’Kar was asking after paper and ink now, the rumours told. More every day, producing page after page of what were, no doubt, the scrawlings of a caged lunatic who had lost all grip on reality after a single dose of Dust and, apparently, whatever spiritual revelations lay shrouded within the Centauri psyche. If G’Kar on Dust had received divine intervention? Then after a bottle of brivari and a handful of Dr. Franklin’s delightful painkillers, Londo figured he was entitled to a little friendly conversation. 

Londo took a long pull from the bottle wedged between his arm and the couch, blinking at the rows of golden statuettes he’d assembled on the coffee table. The exultant faces of the gods stared back at him. His family’s patrons: Illarus, Venzhen, and Tripeta, stood near the front. He could think of no better company in these troubled times. 

He raised the near empty bottle. 

“A toast,” he announced, “to eternal grudges and just deserts.”

He took a drink, waiting for the alcohol to settle in his blood before turning to his captive audience. The gesture was met with silence. 

Londo scoffed and drummed his fingers against the armrest. “I should have known you would not appreciate that one, you lovers of joy. I will come up with something more suited to your tastes.” He thought for a moment, then lifted the bottle again. 

“To past glories and new beginnings,” he began, “and to favours great and small.” His voice intoned high at the end, though he did not mean to phrase it as a question. “You still do that sort of thing, yes? Bestowing your gifts and tricks upon us lowly mortals? Or have you found better ways of entertaining yourselves these days? The legend of Ottavio, who asked Eussep, master of currents, to bless his great ship? Or, or... Jadius, who wished for his lover Danna to be brought back from the underworld? Although, I do recall that ended poorly for everyone except Morgoth. No offense intended, of course,” he added, then gave a respectful nod to the statue in question. 

Still no word from the gods, blessings or otherwise. 

“All right. Fine. Be that way,” Londo said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Have I not humbled myself sufficiently for your liking? Have I not honoured your altars all my life? Offered enough prayers? Observed your celebrations? What now? Do you expect me to beg?” He fixed a disparaging gaze on Li in particular. He had begged once before; it hadn’t done any good then and it wouldn’t now.

There was only a thin circle of brivari left in the bottle, and Londo did not think he would be drinking much more tonight, as his head was already swimming. “To futile ambitions and false hopes. There, I said it.” Gently, he leaned over to place the empty bottle on the floor. It clinked against others abandoned the night before. From that angle, the smiles of the gods turned to mocking sneers. 

Londo grimaced in return. He finally understood. “Ah, is that how it is? Am I already entertainment enough for you that it would cheapen the pleasure to intervene? Let us rejoice with laughter at the triumphs and mistakes of Londo Mollari, who thought he was too good for us! Who, for one foolish moment, thought he could take control of his own fate, who placed his trust in the promise of power rather than the certainty of death! The very desire must seem pathetic to you. Oh yes, have a good long laugh — I renounce you!” 

He dragged a hand across his face, felt his cheeks hot and damp. “Or perhaps I renounced you long ago.”

Too late, he realized that his hearts were pounding again. That familiar sensation, the one from the waiting room, was creeping up his spine again. He had hoped the attacks might only bare teeth when he was in public and relatively sober, but clearly he had been mistaken. Gods be damned, he needed someone _real_ to talk to. 

The room spun as Londo raised himself from the couch, taking a moment to regain his bearings, elbows perched on the armrest. His legs still worked in theory. He only had to watch his own footsteps to make his way over to the comm unit on the other side of the room, carefully avoiding the heaps of clothing, empty bottles, and the crunched shards of a cocktail glass he did not remember dropping. With one hand on the wall, he tapped the monitor until he managed to open a channel. He stood up straight, smoothed back his crest, and waited for the signal to come through. 

“L-Londo, do you know what time it is?” The screen flickered to display the haggard face of Vir Cotto, all the way from the Minbari homeworld. His voice was thick with sleep and his crest sagged on one side, but Londo greeted him with enthusiasm. 

“Don’t worry about that, Vir. It is an indecent hour here, too, and I am still awake,” he said with outstretched hands. “How is Minbar treating you? The way things are going, I imagine it has to be better than here, yes?”

Vir nodded and made some affirming noises. “Um, I guess you could say that...” He shifted around, distracted, and for a moment Londo could have sworn he caught a flash of movement in the background.

Londo squinted to get a better look. “What was that, Vir?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Vir said in a hurry. “Just the, uh... the _gokk_ , I think they’re called. His name is Sh’lee. He lives at the embassy, and the staff thought it would be nice if I took care of him for a while.” Vir ducked off screen suddenly, and when he emerged again, he held a small alien creature in his arms. Londo couldn’t get a good glimpse of its features before it let out a squeak and wriggled out of Vir’s grasp, but it was clearly four-legged, hairless, and splotched with blue. 

Vir pouted, eyes drifting to wherever the animal had dashed off. “Or maybe they just thought it would be funny.”

“Ah, who can tell with those Minbari? Regardless, it is good to see your face again, Vir, and to know you are doing well. How is your arm, by the way?” Londo had noticed when he picked up the _gokk_ , but Vir no longer wore a sling. 

The question lifted Vir’s sleepy haze. Eyes bright, he raised his arm, bending at the elbow without a trace of discomfort. “It’s better now, and I mean completely! Londo, you wouldn’t believe what the Minbari can do. I’d barely even gotten off the transport before the embassy staff took all my luggage and brought me to see a doctor. To be honest, I don’t know what she did, exactly, but there was this ray of light and... and she was using these strange crystals, but it didn’t hurt a bit and now it feels like it was never broken!”

Londo resisted the urge to interrupt as Vir talked too fast for his mind to keep up, but his joy was palpable. “Very good! I’m pleased to hear they’re paying you the respect owed to a man of your station. Don’t let them forget that.” 

“I’ll try not to,” Vir replied. “Anyway, um, sorry. I’m sure there was a reason you called? I got a little carried away.”

Caught off guard, there was a long pause as Londo tried to conjure up a proper excuse for calling all the way to Minbar just to speak with his attaché in the middle of the night. Between his exhaustion and the alcohol, he found himself at a loss, so he forced himself to laugh instead. “No, no, nonsense. You are clearly very tired. I had business, but it is nothing that cannot wait until morning. Besides, when have I ever needed a reason to chat with my favourite assistant — no, fellow ambassador now!” He clapped his hands and summoned his best impression of a beaming smile. 

“Londo, are you... all right?” Vir’s posture tightened. His mouth hung open, eyes wide and guileless.

Londo’s smile faded. Why did everyone insist on asking that question? He expected it from Dr. Franklin, but he’d hoped he wouldn’t have to put up with it from Vir, of all people. “I’m fine, Vir, just fine. I may not have Minbari miracle-workers at my beck and call, but I am doing as well as can be expected. You see, I barely even required a day off for recovery. Work is a little slower without you around, of course, but it’s good to keep busy, yes? I’ve managed on my own before, it is no burden. Why just yesterday, I—“

There it was again. He felt a throb at his temples, a scrabbling at the back of his mind. With every heartbeat, the viewscreen blurred. Vir’s face lost all definition. Londo took a step forward, leaning on the wall for balance. He could hear Vir saying... something, but the voice was drowned out by the surge of blood rushing through the small vessels of his skull. One phrase pierced through the fog.

“Do you want me to come home?” 

Londo squeezed his eyes shut and gave a wave to the monitor. “No, of course not. It is hardly necessary to—” 

“I... I really think maybe I should come back. Things have been slow here lately, no major ceremonies coming up, so it might be a good time for me to visit?”

“I said no!” Londo shouted, unable to come up with a kinder way to end the conversation, or to think of anything aside from the clawing in his mind, the wheeze in his exhales, and the fine hum between his ears that was beginning to break off into whispers. Without raising his eyes to the viewscreen, he weakly muttered, “Not now, anyway. It... it is not a good time, Vir. I must be going now. It is late. I will call you when I can.” 

He terminated the transmission before Vir could raise protest, then made his way over to the counter to open another bottle of brivari. Any minute now, Vir would be calling back. If Londo was lucky, he would be out cold before he heard the chime. 

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

At a certain time of night, past a certain stage of drunkenness, those laughable rumours did not sound quite so ridiculous. Londo had to admit that it was something more significant than morbid curiosity that drove him — something altogether more worrisome. But it was far past time for worry now that he had made his way here, to the station’s brig, in the early hours of the morning. The ambassadorial halls were dark and empty. Nobody could see the way he had lurched around corners, hugging the railings, how he’d nearly vomited in the transport tube. 

The nightshift warden lay sleeping with his cheek flat against the desk when Londo walked in. He’d brought a bribe. Though it turned out to be unnecessary, he dropped a purse full of Centauri ducats on top of the warden’s pile of paperwork. Best he take the compensation, in case the guard in charge of the camera feeds had managed to stay awake. Londo had no wish to inconvenience anyone. 

He heard it the moment he set foot into those rows of cells. Low moans emanating from the darkness. Unmistakable. He froze, bracing himself, part of him wanting nothing more than to turn back, but the sound carried him forward. Following the voice, Londo stepped softly through the halls, passing door after silent door. The lyrics were in Narn, if ‘lyrics’ was the right word. From this distance, it took on the semblance of a chant or hymn, lines repeated over and over, interspersed with spoken phrases. He lightened his gait as he approached a cell at the end of the hallway. G’Kar’s song escaped through cracks in the door — steel, opaque, and locked via a special keycard possessed only by security personnel, Londo reminded himself. G’Kar couldn’t see him. Even if he could, would he have noticed him standing there? Londo had to wonder as he listened. 

He sank to the floor beside the cell, his back against the wall. G’Kar’s voice rang clear through the hollows he’d left in Londo’s mind, each note filled with passion, life, hope. The wall itself seemed to pulse, as if unable to contain the spirit it was meant to incarcerate. Sealed in with G’Kar was a fearsome calm — one that Londo could feel if he listened closely, lingering at its edges, basking in its exhalations. Peace settled over him as he sat, entranced and reunited, if only for now, with all that was once holy in him.


End file.
